Writing is painful.
Writing is cruel. It begs an audience and only for the few lucky is there ever any applause. Best case scenario, a friend or family member will read the sentences you practically had an aneurysm to arrange perfectly and offer you some shallow piece of encouragement. But everyone knows the words of the biased don’t count for crap. If anything it sucks more because it feeds all your fears, those lies of incompetency you feed yourself daily for breakfast, lunch, dinner…like a good cereal you keep eating when you need to go to the store for real food. You can’t seriously believe a word of biased opinion because you never quite know it’s true.
But you can’t stop writing just because of that because even though you may get no applause, you avoid having hemorrhoids. Trying not to write when your head is a mass of creative phrases is like being an alcoholic trying to give up booze. It’s ugly- the headaches, temper, the incoherent ranting and raving. And ah yes, the whining.
So I’m writing, as painful as it is. Ironic to wrestle so much with something you love. I used to think writing is like having a stomach bug, the one where you know you’ll feel better if you could just vomit your guts out. But now I feel like it’s more of a hangover. You spend all that time writing, enjoying the sweet wine. You find a pace and you’re the life of your party, you’re winning beer pong. Then you’re finished, trashed, and you’ve puked all you can and you’re empty. Alone. Raw. Bored. Possibly regretting the binge. People may compliment your attempt to compile thoughts powerful enough to rival the classics. They’ll say you rocked the party when you skinny dipped and yelled at the cops but it’s the day after and without that buzz you’re just a loser that won’t accomplish anything until the next solo cup is in your hand.
What do you do until then? Nothing is in color, nothing as alive or interesting. So maybe sleep. Eat chocolate and get diabetes, I don’t know. Just try not to pluck out the eyes of people when you feel the words coming and you pick up your pen but they have other more pressing needs in the “real” world, more urgent than the worlds begging to be expelled from the universes in your crowded brain.
So in conclusion to a rant with barely any flow, writing sucks. I don’t know why I do it. Call it a malfunction if you will because here I am, still doing it. Guess I’m a literary drunk.